


Privileged

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Smallville
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Classism, Cuddling & Snuggling, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Lex is a spoiled brat, M/M, Male Slash, eventual smutty smuttiness, initial kids!Clex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-02-22 00:44:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2488175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Colonial America. Clex. AU-verse, m/m slash.</p><p>The Kents migrated to America to provide their adopted son with a better life. But when they find employment with the wealthy Luthors, they can’t escape the shadows that lurk among them.</p><p>Author’s Note: I’m dedicating this to Gothabilly13, since we talk about Smallville once in a while and have brainstormed together on some of my other fics. And because she’s just such a big sweetie.</p><p>Disclaimer: I don’t own the Smallville fandom. These characters belong to Warner Bros. I’m not making any money to write this piece of sh…I mean, fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jonathan MacKenna huddled closer to his wife in their crowded bunk, thankful that she had fallen asleep. Her cheeks were still gray from the almost relentless seasickness that had seized her since they lost sight of their port. Jonathan, Mairead, and their son, Connor only had each other and the clothes on their backs when they boarded the creaking, rocking ship that stank of fermenting fish and unwashed flesh. They rode in steerage class within the ship’s hull, it was cramped, and nothing was sacred. It was all they could afford.

Connor was none the worse for wear, and Jonathan was relieved that his son was so hearty from the beginning. As if he felt his father’s eyes on him, he cracked one open from where he rested against his mother’s bosom. Jonathan smiled. “Go to sleep, lad.”

“Okay,” he yawned, and his eyes drifted shut obediently, once more leaving Jonathan to his thoughts.

The future was frightening and foreign. The past they left behind was nightmarish, granted, but at least it was familiar. Jonathan and his wife knew everyone in their tiny town by name; it made it that much more painful every time someone died. It broke his heart a little more when he tilled his fields and harvested nothing but spoiled, rotted spuds, coming home with little fruit for his labor. 

The rocking of the ship had taken away his appetite. That was fine with him; they had brought scarce, precious food, and they were saving it for Connor. His pants were patched and their hems let down to keep up with his rugged play and fast growth. He was tall for his age, Jonathan mused. He wondered if he would have the opportunity to go to school, now. 

It was a pipe dream, Jonathan scoffed to himself. They would worry about getting a roof over their heads, first.

Metropolis. The fabled Emerald City. Jonathan pinned his hopes on it, building his dreams on its foundation.

*

 

Mairead woke sharply as the ship lurched to a stop, and Jonathan chuckled at her low groan. “Father above…please tell me we’ve made it,” she pleaded with him as she stretched her cramped limbs. Connor yawned and squirmed against her, and his dark waves were tousled. She instinctively reached out to smooth them, managing a smile for his benefit.

“We’ve made it, love,” he assured her. Mairead’s gray eyes lit up. 

“I can’t stand it one minute longer on this miserable wreck,” she insisted. “Connor, gather up your things!”

“They won’t let us out that quickly,” he reminded her gruffly. “Slow down, sweetheart. We’ve got to make it through customs.”

“I hope you brought our paperwork,” she countered.

“Hmmm…I think I left it in my other pants,” he teased.

“Jonathan!” She raised her hand to swat him, and he caught her wrist.

“Teasing! Teasing,” he assured her with a grin.

“Da? I hafta go,” Connor complained.

“Hold on a little longer,” Mairead encouraged. She shuddered at the thought of the chamber pots and how infrequently they were emptied. Connor made a face and squirmed.

“ALL ASHORE THAT’S GOING ASHORE!” The hull was a blur of hectic activity as the passengers began gathering their meager baggage and possessions. Jonathan and Mairead counted themselves lucky that they’d survived their journey. Some of the passengers didn’t last past the third day, already too far gone from hunger and fever. Their bodies had been wrapped up in shrouds and unceremoniously chucked overboard, to their horror. The crew stood by, stoic and unfeeling for the plight of the families as they mourned and wailed. The world was a cold, cruel place. It would be the ultimate struggle to find their place in it.

Disembarking from the ship took them roughly an hour. Connor, trooper that he was, held off complaining any further about his needs, even though he squirmed by his mother’s side as they waited their turn. Jonathan’s arms already ached from his lack of proper sleep, and they protested the burdens of their luggage. The air was crisp and cold, but at least it was fresh, free from the mildewy stench of the hull and the odor of rotting fish. They were bedraggled and wrinkled, hair mussed and hastily tucked under caps, except for Mairead, who covered her gleaming auburn hair with a soft green kerchief. She exhaled a shaky breath as she surveyed the docks and surrounding busy streets. The harbor was crammed with ships of every kind, showing that Metropolis was a diverse community whose denizens came from every class. Jonathan wondered hopefully if he might find labor on a fishing boat, provided that he developed sea legs soon.

Nay, he decided. That wasn’t the life for him. He came from a long line of proud farmers, men who worked the land and raised livestock. There had to be other ways to make their way. “Look at it, Jonathan,” she murmured, and her hand felt cold as it crept into his. He squeezed it, imparting some of his strength to her, and she huddled against his side.

“This could be home,” he told her.

“It has to be. It’s too late, now,” she reminded him grimly.

“When are we going home?” Connor asked petulantly. “I’m hungry.”

“We’ll see about breakfast soon,” Mairead promised. She wanted to sit down away from the bustling crowd, where they wouldn’t have to open up their meager food supply around hungry strangers. She felt a bitter pang that she couldn’t answer her son’s question, namely when they were going home. 

They were alone in a new land, and so vulnerable. Jonathan was stirred into action by the feel of elbows and hands shoving him, and the tide of now-hostile strangers rushing around him as they made their way down the gangplank. “Hey!” he cried. “Careful, now, I’ve a child and woman, here! Back off!” He held tight to Mairead as she gripped Connor’s hand, and they moved as one with the crowd down to the pier. They nearly staggered at the sensation of the hollow-sounding wooden planks beneath their feet. “Land!” Mairead exclaimed. “I’ve never felt anything sweeter, Jonathan!” Her eyes shone with the beginnings of tears, and he kissed her cheek. Connor looked expectantly at their display, and they included him in their elation. Jonathan picked him up and kissed him soundly, feeling relieved at the familiar throttle of his son’s arms around his neck.

“’ey! You! This way,” a gruff voice ordered. They saw a man with the scruffy beginnings of a beard covering his burly jaw. He pointed toward a three-story building down the street.

“Where are we supposed to go?” Jonathan demanded.

“Customs. Off with you, now.”

“Da? I hafta go,” Connor whined again.

“First things first,” Jonathan muttered helplessly. They hied themselves off to find an outhouse, or at the very least, a place to discreetly use a chamber pot. The man who accosted them snorted under his breath at the straggling family and shook his head.

“Irish,” he tsked in distaste.

*

“Where did you come from?”

“County Mayo,” Jonathan supplied in his soft brogue.

“Where was that?” the man asked, exasperated with having to ask again.

“Mayo. County Mayo, sir.”

“Ah. I see.” The man wrote the name hastily in his ledger. “How many are there of you traveling together?”

“Three. Just three,” he explained. Jonathan didn’t add that it would have been more if Mairead’s sister and husband hadn’t died from the plague before they had enough funds for all of them to board the boat. He felt his wife’s sorrow at his words without even having to look at her.

“Names.”

“Jonathan McKenna. This is my wife, Mairead. And this is our son, Connor.”

“Your son? Take his hat off,” he ordered coldly. 

“Why?”

“Just do as I say. It’s not your place to question me,” the customs officer snapped. Mairead frowned but complied, even though Clark had fallen asleep against her shoulder. She removed his cap, and the officer eyed him carefully. “Let me see him. Turn around so I can see his face.” Again she obeyed, all the while resenting the man’s temerity. “He looks nothing like you. You aren’t lying to me when you say he’s yours?”

“Now, see here!” Jonathan’s face darkened with anger.

“He’s… he’s our son. I promise you that. He’s our only child.” But Mairead wouldn’t deny the truth: Connor McKenna didn’t look one whit like his parents. Jonathan had slightly swarthy skin, tanned from working outside for most of his life, and thick, golden blond hair. His eyes were the McKenna blue, and he had classic European features. Mairead was petite, with creamy skin and titian hair. Her gray eyes often smiled even when her mouth didn’t.

Connor was a different matter altogether. The dozing seven-year-old had skin like peaches and cream, free of so much as a freckle or blemish. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, and when he blinked one eye open, it was an enviable, emerald green. He yawned, closed his eyes again, and settled down against his mother.

“What’s your purpose in coming to America? To Metropolis?”

“To work. To eventually buy a home and be a productive member of the community.”

“How do you propose to do that?” the officer asked skeptically.

“I was a farmer. I’ve also worked as a builder,” Jonathan asserted.

“Farmer,” the officer snorted, shaking his head. “There’s no soil to farm here. All you’ll find on the ground here are cobblestones, Mr. McKenna.” Jonathan’s hopes sank, but Mairead was nonplussed.

“I’m a washer woman and housekeeper,” she told him briskly. “We’ll manage just fine.”

“You will, now?” The man chuckled, amused at the way she straightened up and pinned him with a glare that reminded him of a cranky kitten. “I’m going to do the three of you a favor.” He took the papers that Jonathan had slid across the table to him a few minutes prior and stamped them. “I’m letting you into the country. But not until I give you new names.”

“Excuse me, sir?” Jonathan was confused.

“If you want to live in America, you’ll need to sound like Americans. McKenna? What kind of last name is that?”

“It’s my family name,” Jonathan protested. “It was my father’s name!”

“Kent.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s easier to say. You’re Jonathan Kent, now. All of you are Kents.”

“Just like that, you’re changing our names?” Mairead argued.

“Yours, especially. I can’t even say it aloud. Martha.”

“Martha?” Her mouth dropped open.

“Be proud of it. It was my mother’s name,” the customs officer shrugged. “Now it’s yours.”

“What’s my name?” Connor yawned, slowly waking up to the sound of adults arguing. The officer chuckled at the boy’s drowsy expression as Martha put his hat back on.

“What is it right now? Conal?” he erred.

“Connor,” the little scamp corrected him.

“No. Too Irish.”

“But I am Irish,” he reminded him politely. Silently Jonathan and Mairead cheered their son’s declaration while they waited to hear his new name.

“You’re Clark, now. Clark Kent.”

“I don’t like it, Da,” Connor told his father.

“Get used to it, lad. Welcome to America!” He shoved the papers across the table into Jonathan’s waiting grasp. “Go. We’re finished here.”

*

 

Jonathan and his family managed to find the only boarding house over a five-mile radius from the docks that wasn’t full to capacity, but the owner, a mouthy woman with dishwater blonde hair and a large mole over her lip, informed them that she was going easy on them.

“Had a few rich toffs who wanted to rent this room,” she bragged haughtily. “If they change their minds and come back, it’s out with you, I can promise you that!” She counted the silver coins that Jonathan humbly dropped into her palm. “That’s all?”

“It’s all we can spare for now, until I find work,” Jonathan offered politely. “We just need a place to stay for a short while.”

“This’ll get you two days,” she snapped as she bustled around the room, opening the drapes to air the room. The furnishings were meager, but the room was clean, and it was on the second floor, with no one living above them, so it would be relatively quiet. Martha set down their luggage, but she was chastised for taking liberties. “NO! Put that in the closet!”

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Don’t leave clutter lying around. If I show this room to new tenants, I expect it to be neat.”

“We’ve got two days,” Jonathan reminded her in annoyance. “Give us that much, at least.”

“I’m not above kicking tenants out into the street if they give me trouble,” she sniffed, narrowing her gray eyes. Jonathan wanted to wrap his hands around the fleshy folds of her neck and squeeze, squeeeeeze…

Mairead – Martha – gripped his sleeve, tugging it to bring him back. “We won’t be any trouble,” she promised cheerfully. “You have a lovely house.”

“Takes work to keep it that way,” she said haughtily.

“D’you need a hand?” The woman’s eyes gleamed.

“What’d you have in mind?”

“What needs to be done? Martha inquired.

“I’ll find something. Come with me.”

*

 

Martha’s efforts at housekeeping, cooking, and mending stayed their eviction for another three days than they originally paid for. Nanny, their landlord, was an abrasive woman who ruled her boarding house with an iron grip, but she provided the Kent family and her other residents with hot food and a roof that didn’t leak. Each day, Martha rose before sun-up and went down to the kitchen. She prepared enough bread, eggs, corn meal mush, proper oats, and slab bacon to feed the twelve people who occupied the boarding house. Once they were all served at the long table, she resumed her housekeeping, beating rugs, dusting furniture and knick-knacks, and washing everything until it gleamed.

The only gratitude Nanny ever showed her was her continued threat that they were taking up valuable space, even as she allowed them to stay another day. “You missed a spot! And put away that casserole pan, you’re letting my nice kitchen turn into a pigsty, Martha! Lazy wretch!” Clark wisely hid behind the edge of the sofa when Nanny was in one of her moods. But her beady blue black eyes would eventually find him. “I see you,” she growled, making him flee upstairs. “Children should be seen, not heard,” she grumbled.

Jonathan’s reading skills were limited, but each day, he went into town, looking for “Help Wanted” posts in shop windows. Every day, doors were shut in his face, sometimes slammed. He put on a brave face for his wife and son every morning, but once he shut the boarding house door behind him, his handsome face darkened and settled into grim, heavy lines. He pulled his scarf more tightly around his neck against the chill and soldiered on. There was no help for it, and he had no choice.

When he came home one night with a bundle of groceries in his arms, Martha’s heart leapt and her eyes shone. But Jonathan interrupted her and cut her embrace at the door short.

“Easy now, colleen,” he chided her, handing her a loaf of bread wrapped in a checkered piece of cotton. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Did you find anything, luv?” she pressed as she helped him ease out of his heavy coat.

“Nay, I didn’t,” he confessed, “but I stumbled across a hoity-toity woman who mistook me for someone working in the shop. I helped her load her things in her wagon, and she tipped me a coin.”

“Which shop?”

“Luthor’s,” he muttered. “It appeared to be a clothing shop.”

“Like a boutique?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t see women’s things in the front window,” he reasoned. “It was different. It was enormous,” he added. “Biggest place on the block.”

“I wonder if they need a seamstress,” Martha wondered aloud as she brought the bread into the kitchen. Jonathan sat at the table and frowned as she began to slice it.

“I’d prefer it if you stayed here in the boarding house. You have to watch Clark,” Jonathan pointed out.

“One day, Clark will go to school,” she argued. “When that day comes-“

“When? When will that day come, Mairead?”

“That’s Martha to you,” she told him saucily, pulling a face as she made him a cheese sandwich.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. We’re in a new land, Jonathan. We’ve opportunities we never had before. Connor will go to school.”

“We can barely afford to pay the rent here, colleen, much less send our boy to school.” He caught her wrist as she set the plate in front of him, and her whole body tensed. Her eyes flattened as he plead his case. “Don’t get your hopes up yet.”

“My hopes are all I have, Jonathan. There’s nothing wrong with dreaming, and I dream big. Connor McKenna is just as good as every other child drawing breath and walking on American soil! He deserves the same chance. He won’t just be another starving farmer, Jonathan. I won’t let that happen.”

“You won’t,” he muttered. She snatched her arm away and flounced to the counter, where she’d filled a basin of water to start the dishes. “I want the same things for Clark that you do, colleen.”

“Then don’t expect me to give up hope.” Martha turned back to her chore while Jonathan ate his lunch. “Was that shop hiring?”

“Not that I could tell,” Jonathan mentioned.

“Go back,” she suggested. “It can’t hurt to ask.” He sighed, then nodded.

“Aye.” He wasn’t looking forward to more rejection, but he allowed himself the luxury of imagining himself behind the store’s counter, serving the public. His hands missed the feel of his tools, the heft of a hoe in his hands as he worked the furrows of potatoes and other vegetables. That was the other element that was missing, he considered: The land wasn’t green. Metropolis was a teeming city, paved with cobblestones and lined with brick houses for miles, its north end surrounded by the harbor. From the prow of the ship they arrived in, it was beautiful, but once their feet were on dry land, Jonathan saw its true substance and its dirty soul. 

He saw grifters on the pier, playing shell games and cheating immigrants and tourists at cards. Women of ill repute wore too much makeup and hovered by taverns and storefronts. He heard strange dialects and missed the sound of Irish brogue and true Gaelic. 

The classes were distinctly separate. The toffs didn’t mingle with the have-nots; he saw many a carriage roll by with the curtains pulled to block out the unsavory sight of the streets. The owners who stepped out were always well-fed and overdressed in heavy wools and sleek furs. Jonathan learned his place; they seldom made eye contact with him, and when he caught the odd glance, it was filled with scorn for his humble clothing and tanned skin earned from a lifetime of working outside.

*

“Da? Can I come with you?” Jonathan looked up from his bread and jam and smiled at his son’s eager face. He ruffled Connor’s – Clark’s – dark waves.

“You want to help me find work?” he teased.

“I’m big and strong,” he reminded him. Jonathan’s smile faltered.

“I know that, son. But… that’s something I’ve been meaning to have a word with you about, man to man.” Jonathan stilled a moment when Nanny waddled into the kitchen and pinned him with a glare.

“I hope you wiped your nasty boots before you came in,” she accused.

“Never fail,” he promised, raising his cup of coffee in a mock toast. She snorted.

“And I have my eye on you,” she reminded Clark, whose eyes were gleaming with suppressed mischief. “Stay out of those shortbreads, do you hear me?” Clark ducked his head and nodded, but a hint of a smile played around his lips.

“He will,” Martha assured her. Nanny harrumphed and waddled back out, and Martha swatted Clark’s rump with her tea towel. “Scamp.”

“He’s a growing boy, Mairead.”

“He’ll eat us out of house and home before we even have a home,” she mused. “And it’s Martha, Jonathan. Get used to it.”

“Can I go, Da?” Clark’s eyes shone hopefully, and Jonathan sighed.

“I don’t see the harm,” he decided. “But when I need to talk to someone about a job, stay out of sight and out of mischief, understand?” Clark nodded solemnly, but he grinned when Jonathan told him, “Get your coat and hat.”

He was off in a flash, kicking up a breeze behind him that ruffled the curtains and flipped the small rug off the floor. “Jesus!” Jonathan snapped.

“Don’t take his name in vain, Jonathan! Clark!” Martha called out. Clark had no sooner left than he reappeared, fully buttoned into his coat, not even winded. “You know better than that,” she scolded soundly.

“Ma,” he began, but she ignored his pout.

“Nay. Never do that again, Clark, do you understand?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Understand me now, lad. You can’t be caught doing those special things we talked about. Nanny won’t understand. We’ll get in trouble, and we won’t have a home.”

“When will we have a home just for us?” Clark asked. His small arched brows drew together, and Mairead sighed, ruffling his hair.

“Da needs to find work. Then we’ll see.”

“We will,” Clark promised earnestly. He reached up to embrace her and kissed his mother’s cheek. It was difficult to let him walk out the door with his father, waving back to her so plaintively, as though he didn’t want her to worry.

It broke her heart.

*

They pounded the cobblestones all afternoon until Jonathan felt the sole of his boot wear through. It rubbed a sore against his heel, but he weathered it. Clark trotted beside him tirelessly, and he was grateful for his son’s vigor and resilience. Clark never complained about being tired, sore or cold; Jonathan often wondered if he even knew how it felt to experience them.

Connor McKenna was special from the moment he came into their lives. Jonathan often watched him wistfully, often wondering why fortune smiled on him and gave him such a gift. His friends had all lost children in the wake of the famine, but his Connor was sturdy, never succumbing to the fever. Jonathan felt he was luckier than he deserved when he hustled his wife and child onto that ship, and luckier still when they disembarked onto American soil.

Jonathan urged Clark toward a shop with a row of empty crates alongside its left side. His legs throbbed and he knew Clark had to be hungry. He reached for the sandwich wrapped in a handkerchief that Martha packed for them, and Clark eyed it greedily. Jonathan broke off a small portion for himself and handed over the remainder, which Clark devoured with relish, seating himself on one of the crates. They rested for a few minutes and watched the crowd pass by on the busy street.

Toffs rode by in shining carriages and two men, too far gone with ale, staggered out from a seedy looking tavern. Jonathan cringed at the thought of working in such a place, even though he couldn’t afford to be choosy. Clark watched the men clamoring and making a ruckus with saucerlike green eyes. Jonathan pondered coming back after he returned Clark to Martha and Nanny…

An enormous carriage pulled by two of the finest Morgan horses pulled up to the curb, and Clark watched expectantly as the footman climbed down and opened the latch on the door.

“It’s so big,” Jonathan heard him murmur. “What’s it like riding in one of those, Da?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Jonathan admitted humbly. He’d owned a tiny, rickety wagon that he ended up selling for a pittance in an effort to raise the funds to travel abroad. He watched as a tall, distinguished man of about fifty climbed out, nimbly stepping down to the small stool his footman placed on the ground and avoiding a shallow puddle. He wore a long wool coat and black silk top hat, and a charcoal gray cravat was tied impeccably around his throat. His face was ascetic and lean, his sandy, graying beard neatly trimmed, and his eyes were his prominent feature, large, deep-set and blue; they were shrewd, and his mouth only smiled with irony, Jonathan knew. He carried a fine cherry wood cane with a gold handle, which he rapped against the door, beckoning to someone else inside.

“Look, Da,” Clark murmured as he saw the second passenger climb out, just as self-possessed as his companion. “He’s my size.”

“Might even be your age, lad.” That was where the similarities ended. Jonathan watched the boy step down to the street and peer about at his surroundings with eyes that were no less shrewd than his father’s, and it made Jonathan slightly unsettled to see the boy’s jaded, almost world-weary air. He was fair-skinned to the point of being pale, owning none of Clark’s rosy-cheeked glow. He wore an expensive looking wool cap pulled down over his ears, heavy wool mittens and a navy blue worsted wool coat. He must have felt Jonathan and Clark’s eyes on them; he turned with a slight jerk and pinned them with a wary look.

Clark smiled at him and waved. The young stranger sneered and looked away. Clark shrugged up at his father.

“He’s rude, Da.”

“He’s rich, lad.”

The street teemed with traffic in an instant, and suddenly the toff and his entourage disappeared from view. The carriage circled and parked a few blocks down the street, its groomsmen and driver standing indolently nearby, chatting with the local shopkeepers and smithy. Jonathan sighed wearily.

“I think your mam misses us by now, Connor.”

“It’s Clark, Da,” he reminded him, continuing to practice his new identity. Jonathan patted his head roughly, chuckling. He admired his son’s willingness to adapt to their new home.

“Let’s go.”

“I’m still hungry.”

“You’ve a hollow leg, laddie.” Clark kept up with his father’s long strides easily at a near-trot, enjoying the brisk weather, which for the most part he hardly felt. Mairead always marveled at their child’s hardiness; extremes of weather never bothered him. He seldom broke a sweat during the most humid of Indian summers, and the blustery winter winds never chapped his skin or caused him any chilblains. 

“ALEXANDER!” Father and son turned at the booming voice and the rush of footsteps. Out of the corner of his eye, Jonathan saw a blur of navy blue, and he heard the boyish voice answering back with more insolence than he’d ever allow from Connor.

“I want my satchel!”

“ALEXANDER! Confound it! Come to me, at once!” Connor watched astonished as the boy pelted down the sidewalk’s cobbles toward the carriage once he spied it, holding onto his hat as he ran.

“He’s not as fast as me,” he muttered under his breath.

“He shouldn’t tear along like that, he could-“ Before the words could leave his mouth, Jonathan’s immediate fear came true. The boy’s fine leather boots caught a slick of ice, which he careened over in a breath-stealing spasm, every contortion meant to catch and stop himself. He fell with a grunt that Jonathan heard as well as felt, making the man wince in sympathy. 

His momentum carried him off the curb, where he landed in a murky, ice-crusted puddle of slush.

“ALEXANDER!” his father boomed again, trotting after him with difficulty in his long, stiff coat. Instinctively Jonathan ran toward him, not caring about the boy’s earlier disdain.

Alexander sputtered, shocked from the damp cold and his throbbing palms and a knee that felt skinned. His ears rang and he’d bitten his tongue. “Ow,” he moaned as he reeled from mingled pain and surprise. He stood up shakily, shivering from the slushy water that soaked his trousers and stained the hem of his expensive coat. 

“That’s a shame,” Jonathan tsked. He reached into his pocket and took out a large handkerchief. “C’mere, laddie. Let’s clean some of that off before you’re soaked through.”

“My name’s not ‘Laddie,’” he informed Jonathan huffily. Jonathan wasn’t sure if the rosy color blooming in the boy’s cheeks was from the cold or from embarrassment. “I’m Alexander Luthor!” 

“That’s a fine name, lad,” Jonathan shrugged. He half-heartedly swabbed the boy’s fine coat with the handkerchief, knowing it would do little to help.

“Are you cold?” Clark asked him uncertainly.

“Well, what do you think?” the strange boy demanded.

“You’re teeth are chattering,” Clark informed him.

“Then that probably means I’m cold,” Alexander told him sharply.

“Alexander,” his father snapped, “mind your manners.” The gentleman approached them and offered them a tight, efficient smile that lacked sincerity. “You don’t have to do that, friend.”

“It’d be a shame to ruin such fine winter clothes.”

“When you’re as fortunate as we are, there’s nothing that can’t be replaced.” The stranger set his hand on his son’s shoulder and squeezed a brief warning, putting an end to his scowl; chastened, Alexander stared down at his feet.

“He can have my coat if he wants,” Clark announced, and his stubby fingers flew over the buttons, opening the careworn, clean coat. Jonathan abandoned his cleaning efforts with the cloth, and before he could chide Clark, his son shucked his own coat and hurried forward with it, shoving it toward Alexander. The boy looked back toward his father, annoyed and confused. “I’m not cold,” Clark offered easily. “Take it,” he instructed. 

Fear seized Jonathan and made his heart race. Damn it, Connor! They can’t know! 

“Young man, it’s unforgiving out today! You’ll catch your death!”

“I don’t want your coat, anyway, dummy-“ Alexander’s harsh words were abruptly cut off by the cuff across the back of his head. “OW!”

“Manners, Alexander.” A battle of wills took place between them, stern blue eyes boring into slate gray.

Once again, his son dropped his eyes in shame, mittened hands clenching at his sides. 

“It’s all right. You can take it,” Clark assured him, just in case he hadn’t understood.

“No, thank you,” Alexander told him gruffly. “Just put it back on. Everyone else has on a coat.” Clark’s brows beetled, and he peered down the street. The boy had a point; Clark watched store patrons filing down the street, bundled to the teeth.

“All right.” Clark shrugged back into the faded garment and tucked his hands into his pockets, resigned. So what if the fancy-looking boy didn’t want his offer of help? At least he asked. Clark scuffed his foot in the slushy snow and puffed out his cheeks, blowing out little streams of mist like Old Man Winter. Alexander stifled a smirk.

“That was a decent gesture, young man, and don’t think for a moment that it went unappreciated.” The stranger reached out to him, extending a gloved hand. “My name is Lionel Luthor. You’ve met my son, Alexander.”

“Alex,” his son corrected him sulkily.

“That’s not your given name.”

“This is Clark,” Jonathan offered as his son returned the perfunctory handshake. Jonathan took his turn, and was impressed to find a strong, uncompromising grip. “I’m Jonathan Kent.” It felt strange to use the adopted name, but it was as good a time as any to acquaint himself with it.

“Kent? Is that British? Did you come from across the pond?”

“Er… no. Not exactly. We’re new to Metropolis.”

“Straight off the boat?” Lionel hinted.

“Aye…er. Yes.”

“County Donegal? Or County Orange?” Lionel’s eyes glinted with amusement, and Jonathan paled.

“County Mayo,” he admitted.

“I hear it’s lovely. You don’t have to talk in circles regarding where you’re from. Once you’re in America, Jonathan, you’re an American.”

“I’d wager that few in the city feel the way you do, sir.” Lionel followed his eyes, taking in the store front signs, crudely written and larger than life.

“Don’t group me so hastily with the rest of the ignorant masses. The Luthor family wasn’t born in this great land, Jonathan. My parents were poorer than tinkers when they reached these shores, and they worked their fingers to the bone for everything they had, and that we now enjoy.” He gripped his son’s shoulder as he began to fidget, and Alexander automatically stilled. “Metropolis is a city of opportunity for those who would reach out for it.”

“Aye,” Jonathan agreed easily. He cleared his throat; Lionel’s face was shrewd and impatient. “We’d best leave you to your affairs. It was a pleasure, sir. Alexander,” he told the child, nodding. 

“Goodbye,” he replied solemnly.

“Are you going to get your satchel now?” Clark inquired.

“I’d have it by now, if-“

“Alexander, that’s enough. Please, excuse my son’s bluntness. Oh, before you take your leave… you never mentioned where you’re staying?”

“Nanny’s. A boardinghouse a mile or so from the harbor. Martha takes in some mending and helps in the kitchen in return for board.”

“Does she? Martha? Your wife?”

“Aye. You won’t find a better cook.”

“And she mends? Is she handy with a needle?” Jonathan’s smile widened at the chance to boast.

“Her quilts have won top prize at the fair five years in a row. You won’t find any handier with a needle and thread than my sweet wife.” A light went on in Lionel’s eyes.

“Jonathan, an opportunity may have just fallen into your hands."


	2. In From the Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spider lures the fly into his web.

Nanny was tight-lipped when Martha announced that they would no longer have to rely on her generosity, questionable though it was. Martha packed up their meager belongings once she'd finished cleaning the kitchen, leaving it spotless, but the boardinghouse mistress still found last minute opportunities to nitpick and fuss. Clark didn't escape her scrutiny, either.

"The world isn't kind to the disadvantaged, mark my words."

"We're hardly disadvantaged," Jonathan argued. "We've come this far and survived this long. Luck is with us, Nanny."

"Rubbish. Not many in Metropis are as kind to the needy as I am." Martha wisely held her tongue, which was typical of most exchanged between the two women. "You Irish and your luck," she muttered as she turned from her and bustled to her counter to knead an enormous mound of risen dough. 

"Aye, and we're lucky," Jonathan agreed as he looked up from his book. Nanny gave him a look of disgust, giving the dough a sound thwack. Martha rolled her eyes and swatted him with her rolled-up towel.

Clark lingered upstairs in their tiny room, playing with a spinning top. He flicked it and watched it glide across Nanny's immaculately polished floor. He munched thoughtfully on a red Macintosh apple and listened to Nanny blistering his parents' ears, grateful for a change that he wasn't in the kitchen downstairs. He chased the tip of the top, bumping it to make it ricochet and veer off its chosen path. His own path was about to change course, due to circumstances beyond his control.

 

*

"Mrs. Smith, I want those rooms aired, the two in the west wing," Lionel ordered briskly as he cut another bite of his steak, knife scraping against the gold-rimmed china. His thick-jowled housekeeper looked up from polishing the silver.

"The west wing, sir?"

"Yes, those two rooms will do nicely. Make them up in the old blue linens."

"The old ones, sir? They're practically threadbare!"

"I've no doubt that they're better than anything that they're accustomed to," he replied dryly. "The blue ones, Mrs. Smith."  
"Yes, Mr. Luthor." She finished her task quickly and laid the polished flatware in the velvet-lined box before returning it to the tall cabinet in the living room. As she passed the table, she automatically poured him another cup of black tea, dropping in a sugar cube with a small pair of tongs. He nodded his thanks and handed her the smaller, empty plate, dusted with crumbs from his finished toast.

He retired to his living room after breakfast, treating himself to a few pages of Christopher Marlowe's Faust before he went to work. He chuckled softly over Mephistopheles' offer of Helen of Troy. The winter sun warmed his stocking feet where they rested on the ottoman, and his tranquility was complete.

It was obliterated by the abrupt shrieks from the front yard.

"GO BACK INSIDE, FANCY PANTS! YOU BABY!" Lionel winced, then sighed at the familiar taunts as he closed his book. He listened further, mentally cataloging their voices. One if them sounded like the Teague boy, which didn't surprise him.

"GROW SOME HAIR!"

Lionel's fingers drummed against the cherry wood arm of his damask-upholstered chair. That had to be Whitney. He heard the sounds of scuffling and of something falling against the pavement. Lionel rose slowly, setting his book down on the side table. He stepped into his short black boots, freshly polished, and he strode outside.

"Where's Hurley?"

"Getting the carriage ready," she explained from under the weight of an armload of blankets.

"That explains it," he muttered under his breath. Lionel decided to handle things himself. He went to the coatrack, and Mrs. Smith automatically dropped what she was doing and lifted his heavy coat from the peg, helping him shrug into it. He didn't bother to button it, and she watched him exit the house in dismay.

"Poor child," she clucked. She pitied her young charge, unfairly burdened with being different from his peers. She watched Lionel approach the group of boys and his son as he struggled to pick up the books they'd knocked out of his grip. She noticed his face was bright red with humiliation and his expression was tight-lipped like he wanted to cry. "Little lamb," she muttered. "Ought to thrash those hooligans."

"Where's the master?" Hurley inquired as he came up from behind her, peering over her shoulder and looking confused.

"Outside. You could have avoided this if you'd gotten that carriage ready sooner and waited outside with the boy."

"How's this my fault? The lad could have waited inside," he pointed out in irritation.  
While they bickered, Lionel sized up the boys, who stopped their sniggering just in time just in time to look like butter wouldn't melt in their mouths. "Good morning, Mr. Luthor," Whitney piped up. "Alex dropped his books."

"No, I didn't!" He snapped back, then stared up at his father beseechingly. Lionel shook his head.

"Alex is careful with his books, young man."

"He must've have tripped, Whitney supplied solemnly. "He's pretty clumsy."

"Really?" Lionel scratched his beard. The boys glanced nervously at each other but maintained their innocence. "That doesn't sound like Alexander. I heard some commotion out here." A shiver ran through him as they assessed the tall, saturnine older man with flinty eyes. "You boys should hurry along to school."

"Father," Alex blurted out. Lionel shook his head, and Alex knew what was coming next.

"Hurley is waiting for us inside," Lionel informed him. "Go on in." Alex retrieved his fallen satchel and hefted his books against his waist, struggling under their weight as he climbed the steps. Lionel waited for the door to click shut behind him before he spoke again.

"Boys? Before you go, I'd like a word."

"Sir?" Whitney stammered, wondering how they missed their reprieve.

"I know boys your age can be impulsive, Lionel reasoned. "Perhaps you see my son as a source of amusement?"

"No, sir!" Jason lied.

"I'd hate to tell your parents what I think I heard today. I'd like to assure your father that you were on your best behavior when I see him later this morning." He turned to Whitney. "And yours."

Both boys paled. They'd heard the stories from their peers of their families' sources of income suddenly dissolving when Lionel Luthor felt he'd been slighted.

"Run along." The boys ignored the slick pavement and icy puddles, splashing through them as they dashed off. Lionel sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face. With rare exceptions, he didn't care much for children. He didn't enjoy the lesson he was about to impart to his own.  
Alex's face was sullen, but his eyes darted to the ground as Lionel confronted him. 

"Inside."

"Hurley has the carriage ready. I'll be late." His voice held a note of desperation as he grasped at straws.

"You've shamed me enough for one morning, Alexander." Alex hesitated, then scrambled up the short steps when his father's lips tightened, signaling that punishment was imminent. Bile filled Alex's mouth, and he felt sweat breaking out over his scalp beneath his wool cap, trying to escape Lionel's eyes as they bore into his back. Mrs. Smith looked up from her polishing, not expecting to see her employer back in the house until he returned from the school. She opened her mouth, but Lionel held up his hand, shaking his head. One look into his flinty eyes silenced any admonishment she could form. She looked away guiltily from Alex's pleading eyes as he hurried past, face crumpling before he jogged up the stairs. Mrs. Smith shook off the frisson of shame, knowing that staying in Mr. Luthor's good graces meant not interfering with his discipline. Her ears heard the low thumps of Alex's boots hitting the floor one at a time and the shifting of fabric before the door to his room clicked loudly shut. His father's voice was muffled, and Alexander was oddly silent until she heard the first crack of leather against vulnerable flesh. Mrs. Smith's eyes pricked, and she flinched at he sound of each blow until she remembered her neglected chore.

Every piece of furniture was gleaming once thy came back downstairs. Alex's eyes were a dull, bloodshot gray and his cheeks were pink from crying. He glanced solemnly at Mrs. Smith and reached for his satchel when she handed it to him.

"Have a good day at school, Master Alexander."

"Goodbye, ma'am," he told her sullenly as she held open the front door. She returned Lionel's nod as he exited into the crisp air and snow, wrapping a muffler around his neck. Hurley jerked open the carriage door and nodded to them as he let them inside, and the look he shot Mrs. Smith frustrated her; he looked chastened that he didn't intercept the boys from harassing his boss' son. She turned her back on him and resumed her morning routine before going up to straighten the blue guest room.  
An hour later, a narrow cot that she brought down from the attic joined the large bed, which she made up with the well-worn but clean linens, a downy blanket and Alexander's old baby quilt. 

Mrs. Smith rummaged through the trunks and retrieved several old treasures, toys and books that Alexander had outgrown that made her misty-eyed. The Kents had a son, from what she's been told. She hoped he would make a suitable playmate, but who knew, with them being straight off the boat? Lionel had mentioned that Jonathan Kent was a farmer by trade, so who knew what use he would have for him around the house?

Mrs. Smith dusted the knickknacks and wall hangings and took the rugs downstairs to beat them out back. The house was quiet except for Thompson, Lionel's butler, who was taking the whistling kettle from the stove and pouring his morning cup. He was thin, graying and taciturn, dressed in gray livery and a plain white apron.

"You'll need to run to the store. We're nearly out of sugar, and I plan to make a roast tonight."

"Run there yourself!" he snapped. "I've my own chores, woman." She swatted him soundly with a wooden spoon and he smothered a curse.

"No one needs your sass, Thompson." Mrs. Smith pulled down several pots and pans from their hooks overhead. "And get me some peas. They're Mr. Luthor's favorite."  
"Kiss up to that snake on your own time," he sneered. Despite his protests, once he'd finished most of his tea a few minutes later, he bundled up and tramped out the door, leaving the housekeeper alone to contemplate the day.

She hoped the Kents fit in. They didn't know what they were in for.

 

*

 

They arrived at the house on foot, following the neatly written directions that Lionel had given him. He tucked the scrap of paper into his coat pocket and let Martha and Clark precede him up the front steps, ensuring they didn't slip. Clark couldn't restrain his excitement as he reached up for the ornate door knocker and rapped the heavy ring against the wood.

"Da, it's like a castle!" Clark exclaimed, eyes dancing. "We're going to live here?"

"Aye, we are, lad." Jonathan heard clumping, heavy footsteps through the door, and a pudgy hand parted the lace curtain covering the glass pane. Two slightly beady blue eyes peaked out at them before the curtain swished back into place. The door was yanked open by a florid, pudding-faced woman of middle years. She appraised them haughtily.

"You'll be the Kents?"

"Aye, lass. Jonathan, Martha, and our son Clark." Her eyes flicked down to Clark. His lips twitched and he ducked behind Martha, suddenly bashful. 

"Come in, then, you're letting in the draft. Cold as a spinster's bed out there. Step lively, and use the mat. I just mopped." 

They paused on their way to knock the snow from their boots off on the thick, tweedy mat. Mrs. Smith tutted; their clothes looked clean but worn. "Are those all the things you have?" She looked down at the suitcases and battered straw basket that the adults carried in surprise.

"That's all we were allowed on the ship," Martha admitted.

"Perhaps that's for the best," Mrs. Smith murmured. "Your room is upstairs." She noticed Clark eyeing the knickknacks and narrowed her eyes. "Don't touch the Hummel! It costs more than you'll ever see in your lifetime!" Clark pulled back his hand like the ceramic figurine had burned him and darted over to his mother's side. Martha grabbed his hand to keep him close, and Clark looked up at her with the twinkle in his eye that she learned meant mischief was just around the corner. 

"Behave," she whispered as they climbed the steep stairs.

"It's this one to your right," Mrs. Smith informed them. "It should do," she added, as if she dared them to argue.

"It will," Martha told her. She eyed the bedspread and suppressed her distaste. At least it was clean.

Clark was delighted, for his part, with the small pile of toys resting on the cot. There was a sack of marbles, a sketchbook, another spinning top, a teddy bear made from worn flannel, and a small toy boat.

"I need somewhere to float it," he announced.

"You'll have to settle for the tub. Bath time is before bed time." Mrs. Smith watched Martha open their suitcase. "You can use this wardrobe and dresser. It should fit all of your things. I've an old trunk in the garage if you need me to bring it down."

"This should do just fine."

"All right, then." Mrs. Smith reached out to straighten one of the doilies on the dresser. "There are rules in this house. Mr. Luthor will go over his expectations when he returns. I know you aren't used to American ways," Mrs. Smith said crisply, "but you'll have to adjust to be a part of this household. Mr. Luthor is giving you a chance most wouldn't give Irish like you." Jonathan bristled. "Be grateful for the opportunity, and don't make Mr. Luthor regret his generosity. I know this house is grander than you're used to, but don't be tempted to steal." She frowned down at Clark, who stared back, nonplussed.

"It's not nice to steal," he told her simply. Mrs. Smith eyed him sternly, but it was difficult to maintain. The boy was adorable.

"Master Luthor comes home from school at three."

"School?" Clark looked delighted. "Will I get to go?"

"We'll see, Clark," Jonathan assured him, but he exchanged a worried look with Martha. They hadn't thought that far yet; finding a home and unemployment were obstacles they had to tackle first. 

"You are not to interrupt Master Alexander during his studies, young man."

"I won't," he shrugged. That promise would prove an empty one in time, but Clark hummed to himself as he upended the sack of marbles and watched them roll over the small rug and floor.

 

*

Alex trudged up the front steps and Hurley let him inside, reminding him to stamp his boots. Alex ignored him, instead choosing to kick them off just inside the door. "I'm home!" he called out. Mrs. Smith emerged from the kitchen and smiled as she wiped her hands on her apron.

"I've made cocoa, dear," she offered. 

"Come and meet Clark." Alex frowned but followed her into the kitchen once she wrangled him out of his scarf, hat and coat. The kitchen was toasty and filled with the mouthwatering scents of fresh bread and chocolate. 

To his surprise, the little dark-haired boy from the street that offered him his shoddy coat smiled up at him from the table, a cup of cocoa warming his hands.

"H'lo," he told him. "I'm Clark," he reminded him.

"I know that," Alex told him huffily. "You're in my seat." Clark looked surprised, but he rose and took the chair across the table instead. He went back to his drink while Mrs. Smith poured Alex his own mug from the saucepan. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I'm going to live upstairs," Clark explained. "Mrs. Smith gave me some marbles."

"What?" Alex scowled. "Don't lie!"

"M'not," Clark argued. "My da said so. We live here now."

"He's not lying, dear. Be polite. Clark and his parents are staying in the spare room. Mr. Kent is going to work for your father. And you'll have a friend to spend time with."

"What if I don't want to spend time with him?" Alex retorted.

"Alexander!" Mrs. Smith was appalled. Clark looked slightly hurt.

"So?" he countered. Alex stared at him with ice in his eyes. Clark merely drank his cocoa and reached for the plate of shortbread.

"If my father says you can't stay, then you can't," Alex bragged. Martha stared at him from where she stood slicing the bread by the stove.

"That's up to your father, Master Alex," Mrs. Smith chided. "That's not how we make someone welcome." She ignored her own previous lapse when she practically called the newcomers thieves, but that was beside the point.

She cleaned up after their snack, and Alex retreated to his room to study. Clark took his marbles into the sitting room and sorted them by color. Jonathan toiled outside clearing the sidewalk in front of the house of snow.

When the carriage pulled up, Hurley climbed down and opened his door, just as Jonathan was about to put away the shovel. 

"Mr. Luthor," Jonathan greeted. Lionel smiled easily and shook his gloved hand.

"You found your way here."

"My family is inside."

"Them let's meet them."


	3. Thin Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex has a brush with death; he has a reluctant change of heart toward his new housemate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lex is a little shit.
> 
> I have no plans to make the childhood accounts of the boys too long-winded like I did with Homestead, nor do I want to focus as much on background pairings. That's been part of what created my writer's block. Updates will be infrequent, but I hope you will enjoy them.

"Why do I have to bring Clark?" Alex's voice was petulant, just shy of a whine. Mrs. Smith tsked at the pout twisting his young features.

"Don't be unkind, Master Alex. It's good for Clark to meet some new friends."

"Why do they have to be mine?"

"Well, why not?" She planted her hands on her hips. Alex fumed as he knotted his scarf around his neck, and he straightened up indignantly as she lifted it higher on his neck and knotted it more securely, hating to be fussed over. "It's been a hard adjustment for him since he came to Boston."

"It's already been two years," Alex grumbled. "That's long enough to adjust, isn't it?" He crammed his hat onto his head, hating the itchy texture of the wool on his bare scalp, and hating it more when she straightened it for him. "He's adjusting fine."

To Clark's credit, he was. Clark and Jonathan traveled into town and to school on foot; Lionel drew the line at the help or the help's children riding in his carriages unless he wanted Jonathan to accompany him on a special errand. Clark knew his way around the city and had little restraint imposed on him on where he could go.

Despite Mrs. Smith's constant warnings and nagging when the Kents first moved in, she adored Clark, always making sure he had second helpings at the table or access to Alex's hand-me-down clothing or discarded toys. He was a scamp, certainly, but he could also be charming and helpful, following Martha's example by helping with chores, effectively "earning his keep." Clark loved helping Hurley in the carriage house out back, always eager to feed and brush the horses, even though that often included the less enviable task of mucking out the stalls. Clark enjoyed being out in the fresh air whenever he was finished with his studies.

He discovered Pete Ross on his first day of school, and the two of them had been thick as thieves ever since. Pete's family were new arrivals to Boston, too, after moving up from the South, an event that Pete wasn't quick - or particularly willing - to describe. Pete's complexion was dark as chocolate and he had crisp, coarse hair cut close to his scalp, and Clark was instantly intrigued, having never seen anyone who looked like that from his home country. But Boston was enormous and bustling, boasting residents that hailed from so many different countries, living in a cacophony of foreign tongues. Clark's brogue weakened a bit as he began to develop New England inflections in his speech, much to Jonathan and Martha's amusement. But he never stopped being proud of his Irish heritage, no matter how unkind some of the children at school could be.

They couldn't hurt him. Clark was mindful of his strength and speed while he loitered out in the schoolyard during the lunch hour. Pete gained a new champion, no longer victimized for his ethnicity. They played peacefully, games of kick the can, catch or shooting marbles. They eschewed the baseball games when Pete wasn't picked for either team.

Clark was intelligent and thrived in school, earning top marks in every subject once he learned to read. His classmates were jealous once he was moved to the back of the class, in the section with the older students. He earned jealous scowls from Whitney and Jason, but Alex steadfastly ignored him.

But Clark didn't get the message. He constantly occupied Alex's space with his nosy questions and mischievous smile. Every time Alex put his book down, there was Clark staring at him. Mrs. Smith and Martha jokingly called him "a little tagalong."

Not that he was little, either, which also annoyed Alex. Despite the four-year age difference between them, Clark was nearly as tall and well-proportioned, promising a strong physique when he came of age.

Suffice it to say, everything about Clark Kent annoyed Alex. The last thing he wanted was to spend his Saturday afternoon with him at the pond. Alex retrieved his brown leather ice skates and knotted the pairs of laces together, slinging them over his shoulder.

"Your father told Martha that Clark would accompany you, Master Alex." That took the wind out of his sails.

"It's not fair!"

"Come, now. The two of you will have a perfectly nice time together at the pond."

"He doesn't even have skates."

"He'll be fine." Mrs. Smith watched the children at the pond skidding across the ice in their boots close to the perimeter; Clark would likely still enjoy that. "Now, Master Alex, mind Hurley when he says it's time to come home. And watch out for the signs." Alex sighed heavily and rolled his eyes, but she gave him a look of warning. "Your father won't approve of you doing anything reckless."

"It's not reckless. It's skating."

She gave his shoulder a squeeze, and then she turned from him and cupped her hands around her mouth. "Clark! CLARK! Master Alex is ready to go!" Alex winced at her bellowing tone and sighed again at the prospect of taking that little green-eyed pest with him. Moments later, Clark barreled downstairs, not even puffing. His cheeks were pink with excitement, eyes flitting between Mrs. Smith and his young, reluctant idol.

"Are we going?"

"Yes, dear. Bundle up!" He didn't balk at letting her help him shrug into one of Alex's old coats, still in excellent condition with no tears. But he wore his old wool cap, a remnant of his trip across the ocean, since he couldn't bear to part with it. Clark pulled on the dark green mittens Martha knitted for him and was just tugging on his boots as Alex opened the door to leave.

"Wait up!" Clark protested as he jerked on the boot and did tried to do up the laces. But Alex headed down the front steps, making Mrs. Smith bluster at his rudeness.

"Didn't even close the door," she grumbled. "That one's in a snit, he is."

"What's a snit?"

"It's when you have your nose out of joint about something, dearie." That didn't clarify things much for Clark, but he shrugged.

"I can't wait to go skating!"

"Have fun, dear. Mind the thin ice. And, Clark?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Watch out for Master Alex. I trust you to look out for him." Clark nodded solemnly, and she almost chuckled.

"I will." She patted his cheek.

"Off with you, now." To her surprise, Clark lunged forward and gave her a fierce hug. "Oh!"

"Bye, Mrs. Smith!" He hurried outside, but came back and closed the door after himself. She shook her head.

"Sweet scamp," she murmured. She headed into the kitchen, where the dishes and bread-baking beckoned.

*  
Hurley met them out front, and Clark was excited to finally have the chance to ride with Alex inside the carriage. He waited for Alex to be seated first on the sumptuously upholstered seat before climbing inside.

"Your coat better not be dirty," Alex nagged. 

"It's not," Clark argued. "Ma keeps all of my clothes clean. Yours, too," he added. Alex bit back the retort that Mrs. Smith did a better job, but thought better of it, since it would mean lying; Martha was an excellent washer woman and housekeeper, and despite how much he resented Clark, Mrs. Kent was kind to him, and she quickly won him over.

"Fine, then."

Clark watched the scenery through the carriage windows with excitement. He had never rode in a carriage before, and it was a much smoother trip than he ever enjoyed in his father’s old wagon. The sumptuous leather upholstered seat was cool at his back as Hurley drove them through town. They arrived at the pond and navigated toward the edge, and he Hurley hitched it up amidst the plainer wagons and climbed down to let the boys outside. He caught Clark’s arm briefly to catch his attention, and Alex smirked at the opportunity to lose him while he joined his friends. Hurley grinned as he handed Clark the large, heavy bundle. Clark peered inside the sack and made a small, excited noise.

“A present from Mister Luthor, Clark. He said he hopes you’ll like them.”

“My own skates!” Clark exclaimed, eyes round. Hurley fondly patted his head.

“Indeed. Remember to thank him for his kindness.” Clark ran his hand gently over the blade, marveling at the hard leather boot.

“I can’t wait to try them out!” He spun and searched the crowd of skaters. Alex had disappeared. “Did you see which way he went?”

“That way.” He pointed in the general direction of the vendor selling roasted chestnuts and hot cider from his rickety cart. “I’ll be back in an hour. I will bring the carriage back to this spot, Clark. Keep an eye out for me. Mrs. Smith won’t want you out too late for supper.”

“Lamb chops?” Clark asked hopefully.

“It’s Thursday,” Hurley told him with a nod. “Wouldn’t want you to miss it.”

“Goodbye, sir.” Clark turned and darted off with the skates slung over his shoulder by their laces. Hurley chuckled.

“Watch that ice!” he called after him. “Don’t go out too far, Clark!”

“I won’t!” He turned for a second and waved, then disappeared.

*

Alex scanned the crowd of visitors to the pond, searching for his mates. He caught sight of a tall, slender blond in a dark green coat and black knit cap, with a shorter, younger boy in tow. He grinned and approached them, sitting on the bench behind them.

“How long have you been here, Ollie?” he asked as he took off his first boot. Alex wore two pairs of heavy socks as a buffer between his toes and the hard skates, and to keep them from turning into ice cubes; the temperature was ten below and dropping. His breath came out in little smoky puffs.

“Not that long. Roy’s already fallen down about three times, though. You missed it.” The younger redhead beside him reached up and clouted him, but he grinned at Alex with gappy teeth, having recently lost his baby incisors. Roy’s coppery curls stuck out from beneath his gray cap, and his nose was pink where it peeked over the edge of his red muffler.

“I tripped over a branch!”

“Everyone else saw it and skated around it,” Ollie accused.

“So?” Roy shoved Ollie, and his arms reeled out to steady himself from skidding and falling on his own skates.

“Hurry up, Alex. We’re gonna race.”

“Where?”

“Between those barrels,” he explained, pointing to two of them that stood roughly a half mile apart from each other, a few yards shy of the pond’s mid-point. The city officials marked it with barriers to discourage people from skating too far out, where the ice’s integrity couldn’t be guaranteed.

“Bet I’ll beat you both.”

“Hope I don’t fall asleep waiting for you to catch up to me,” Ollie challenged.

“Hey… Alex, what’s he doing here?” Roy pulled a face, and Alex stiffened as he turned to look in the direction Roy was pointing. He saw Clark’s look of recognition when he spotted him and began to close the distance between them.

“Tagging along and being a pain in my ass.” Roy sniggered at the use of the curse, but Ollie just shook his head.

“Wonder why he isn’t just hanging out with his nigger friend,” he mused. Alex frowned, though, when he noticed the skates.

“He didn’t have those when we left the house.”

“Have what?”

“The skates.” Clark joined them, cheeks already pink from the cold air, but he looked thrilled.

“Your da gave me these,” he explained, showing him the brand new skates.

“No, he didn’t,” Alex argued sourly. “You probably stole them!” Clark’s smile dropped.

“He did. Just ask Hurley. I don’t steal!”

“Sure, you don’t. Because Irish never steal,” Ollie huffed. Clark’s lips tightened.

“I don’t steal. I pay my own keep. My da works for what we have.”

“Pay your own keep…” Alex shook his head, but a tiny part of him admired Clark’s spirit. “Your parents pay your keep. You just help out a little, when you’re not getting in the way.”

“I’m not getting in the way!” But Clark was backing off a few paces. “And I don’t steal. You don’t know anything about me, or about the Irish, Oliver Queen.” He was bending down as he said it, but his green eyes pinned him, flashing with anger. He scooped up a chunk of snow and hurled it, aiming for his face. Oliver ducked and skidded backward on the ice, just avoiding getting hit and falling down.

“Did you just try to hit me?!” Oliver’s eyes widened, and he stared at Roy. “Did you see what he just did?”

“I’ll tell your mother,” Alex threatened. It was a worthy promise; Clark’s reach for more snow faltered briefly, but he thought better of it and packed another snowball. “And you probably _did_ steal those ska-“ His words were cut off by the clump of snow that hit him squarely in the mouth. He hastily scrubbed the icy fragments from his face with his mittened hand and stared up at him indignantly. “You bastard!”

“My ma would wash my mouth out with soap if I said that,” Roy muttered to Ollie, but his eyes were dancing. Alex was in the middle of lacing up his second skate, but that didn’t stop him from charging at Clark unsteadily, lunging down to scoop up some snow and pack a hasty ball. Clark’s eyes narrowed, and he set down his new skates, less interested in trying them out and more in claiming insult from Alex and his friends. He ducked Alex throw easily – more quickly than Alex’s eyes could track, even though he threw it from close range – and Alex cursed when he missed.

Roy’s snowball found its target, slapping Clark across the cheek as he focused on Alex, but that didn’t deter him. He bent, packed and threw, irritation sharpening his aim. None of his throws missed, and he eventually drove the boys back. Every time Alex opened his mouth to form a barb, Clark managed to hit him with more snow. He finally backed off, scuttling off to finish tying off his skate laces. “Forget you, Clark!” he called back, and Ollie and Roy skated after him. Clark watched them with a mixture of longing and disappointment.

Fine, then. He’d skate alone.

Clark went to the vendor’s cart first and reached into his pocket for a penny, which bought him a cup of apple cider and a small paper sack of chestnuts. He peeled and ate some of the treats and savored his drink at the empty bench before putting on his skates, doing up the laces in criss-cross fashion as he’d watched Alex do with his. His first steps in them made his ankles wobble slightly, but he got the hang of it and slowly stepped out onto the ice. He yelped briefly and felt his arms reeling and flying out to catch his balance. The feeling of gliding forward with so little movement exhilarated him, and he took a few experimental strides, growing accustomed to the impossibly narrow little blades. He skidded to a stop, then started again, deciding to join the ring of skaters. He made no attempt to catch up to Alex and his friends, and they watched him periodically, smirks on their faces, waiting for him to fall.

He never did.

*

The boys held their speed-skating races between the barrels until their faces were flushed and their toes began to feel frozen. Ollie beat Alex and Roy for the last two races, and their blades kicked up small streams of shaved ice each time they skidded to a stop. “Slowpokes,” Ollie teased. “I win again!”

“You cheat,” Alex countered. “I wasn’t ready!”

“I said ‘ready, set go!’” Roy argued. “I want cider.”

“Do you have any money?”

“I do,” Alex told them. He reached into his pocket and pulled out two nickels. Ollie and Roy’s eyes shone with greed; that would buy lots of chestnuts and roasted peanuts and likely spoil their appetites for dinner.

“One more race,” Ollie told them. “Let me beat you one more time before we go in.”

Clark listened to them teasing each other from a half a mile back, his sharp ears picking up everything. The sky was darkening early, and the businesses in the distance were beginning to light outdoor lanterns and street lights. Hurley would be coming to collect them soon, and Clark realized it was up to him to remind Alex of this, even though he wasn’t looking forward to it. He slowly began to skate toward them and watched Ollie goodnaturedly shove Alex.

“Let’s just go in,” Alex told them. His feet ached, and he craved something hot. Then he saw Clark beginning to skate toward them and huffed in annoyance. “Look who decided to show up.”

“Poor baby got lonely,” Roy suggested, even though he was only Clark’s age.

“You still owe me a race,” Ollie reminded him haughtily. “Unless you’re afraid?”

“I’m not afraid of you beating me!” Alex told him, pulling a face. Then he eyed the barrel markers. “Bet you’re afraid, though. How far out do you think I can go before the ice cracks?” Roy’s eyes suddenly looked fearful, and Ollie shook his head.

“That’s stupid, Alex!”

“Sounds like you’re afraid. Think I won’t do it?”

“You’re not allowed,” Clark told him as he approached, frowning. “Your da wouldn’t like it.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Clark that his father didn’t like _cowards,_ a lesson he’d beaten into him with a leather strap since Alex was old enough to walk.

“You won’t tell my father what I did. You’re Irish. He knows you lie.” Clark’s face twisted into a scowl.

“You take that back!”

“What, Clark? Are you going to throw another snowball? Go get some, and get lost!” Alex began skating past the boundary of the barrel markers, even turning around and gliding backwards to taunt his housemate. Ollie and Roy stood stock still, unsure of Alex’s newest game. “C’mon, are you guys chicken?”

“Alex, come back!” Roy cried. “It’s a bad idea!” Alex chuckled.

“Sure, it is, Oliver.” He knew his friend wasn’t fond of his given name, and it was fun to use it on him when he was ribbing him. “Who’s afraid of a little ice-“

A sick sensation ran up his spine at the sound of the crack, which turned into a series of cracks that scarred the pristine surface of the ice, far enough out from the shore to be untouched and a murky dove gray. Clark heard the crack and felt his heart stutter.

“ALEX! COME BACK IN! COME BACK, NOW!”

“Don’t worry about it, you baby-“ Alex was still gliding backward, and he planned to stop himself after giving his cocky performance another few seconds just to get their goats, but the ice had other ideas.

The ice gave way with a harsh crash, and the boys watched in horror as the water swallowed him up with a low splash, scattering jagged chunks of the ice. “OH, NO!” Roy screamed. “ALEX! NOOOOO!”

“Alex!” Ollie hissed. “No, nonono… he’s gonna be in so much trouble with his pa-“

“HELP HIM!” Roy reached out to Clark and seized him, pulling on his arm and rousing him from the stupor of watching him fall through the unforgiving ice. He saw Alex’s hat bob to the surface, and then watched his gleaming bald head break through the surface of the water. He struggled and gasped for air, a ragged, starving sound.

“Help,” he rasped. “Cold- c-c-cold… can’t keep…” His mittened hands reached for the edge of the ice to try to pull himself up. Behind the boys, a flurry of activity rose up from the adults who saw what happened, and they called for someone to bring a tree branch or rope, calling to the boys not to approach him for fear of falling through themselves.

“GET BACK!” a sturdy, middle-aged man called out, urging his young daughters to hang back where they were. “Stay calm! We’ll get him! SOMEONE GET AN AXE!”

Alex struggled to tread water, but when he faltered, he sank down again, this time drifting below the icy crust. It was impossible to discern ice from water, and he banged at it, trying to break through. His lungs constricted, frozen and starved for air. He began to see dark spots and his muscles were so stiff…

Clark felt white-hot fear replace common sense, and he hurried to where Alex fell, spying his pale head beneath the water. “ALEX! I’m coming! I’ll get you!”

“Don’t be stupid!” Ollie cried out. “You’ll just call in!” He lingered with Roy just within the span of the barrels, and Roy’s face was streaked with tears. Clark didn’t hear them.

He heard Alex’s faltering heartbeat mingled with the initially frantic, then slowing splashes as he fought to stay afloat. That was all he needed. He reached up, cocked his fist, and drove it down against the surface of the ice, his swing fueled by fear and desperation. The ice groaned, shards of it flying with the impact. He swung again, and tears stung his eyes, making them smart in the cold air, but he swung again, heedless of his own safety. “Alex,” he blurted, “I’ll get you!” The ice around him cracked perilously, and Roy and Ollie skated backward, trying to avoid their friend’s fate, and they were shuffled off before they had the chance to watch Clark’s attempts. Roy reached instinctively in Alex’s direction, eyes hollow. The man who warned them earlier arrived with three other sturdy-looking men.

“Boy, come away from there!” They were far enough back not to see Clark’s progress in breaking through the ice.

It all happened so fast. Clark’s fist went through, and with a resonant crack, the floe of ice gave way, floating off and leaving Alex an exit point. Clark reached down for him, plunging his arm shoulder-deep into the frigid water and caught Alex’s coat collar. He hauled him up, and when Alex’s head broke through the surface, his eyes were closed and his skin was bluish-gray. “ALEX!” Clark sobbed as he leaned back, grasping for his shoulders. He curled his hands beneath his armpits and hauled him up, feeling his young muscles burn, and Clark skidded backward over the ice, clutching Alex against him. They slid back several feet before they stopped. Clark’s breathing was ragged and coming in harsh gulps, and he was still clutching Alex’s inert body against his.

Everyone just stared for a moment.

 

“Boys, it’s not safe, damn it! Come off the ice!” It was the man who ran for help before, herding Roy and Ollie back, and one of his companions reached Clark and Alex, who tried to take Alex from him and turn him over.

“No,” Clark cried desperately, unwilling to let him go. “Don’t!”

“Let me see about him, laddie buck,” the man told him in a thick brogue. “You’ve helped him, you did your best, but it’s time to let the grown-ups handle this. What’s his name?”

“Alex Luthor,” Clark told him miserably. Thick tears were beginning to spill down his cheeks. “He lost his hat.” The man looked at him incredulously.

“He’ll get other hats, lad.” He propped Alex against him and tried to rouse him, shaking him and rubbing his arms. “Someone bring blankets!” Witnesses at the edge of the lake who wore boots slowly began to approach to help collect the boy. Alex’s head lolled briefly, and when the man lightly slapped his pale cheeks, his eyes drifted open. He gasped and spit out a mouthful of water and began to cough. Clark let out a small sob and grasped his arm.

“Alex! Please be all right!”

“Where…?” Alex stared around him, owning no clue of where he was or what had happened. But he was frozen to the bone, and his mind began to hallucinate that he was boiling instead. His hand limply patted at his coat, trying to undo one of the buttons until the man cradling him stopped him.

“That’s enough. We need to get you warm.” Slowly he rose, carrying him with some assistance toward the shore. Alex felt like he was floating. Dimly, he heard Clark’s low sobs behind him as he followed anxiously, not wanting to leave him, worried about how to explain it to Hurley when he arrived. Alex felt himself being shifted repeatedly, then lowered to a blanket that someone found and spread on the ground.

“Where does he live?” he heard a woman ask in a worried tone.

“He’s Lionel Luthor’s son!” someone else called out.

“Give him this,” Clark pleaded, and he hurried forward with his own cap. The man who carried him away eyed him warily.

“Not a bad idea. He’s got no hair,” he agreed as he took the proffered hat and pulled it down until it covered Alex’s ears. They were ringing from the cold; Alex felt himself bundled in two blankets and he couldn’t stop shivering. His eyes were bleary and he was going into shock.

Clark watched his sometime-enemy struggling to recover from his immersion. “Someone get him some cider!” The vendor hurried forward with a steaming cup, but Alex was trembling too much to drink it, and it spilled down his chest. The hectic tremors frightened Clark.

He felt his eyes grow warm, seeming to pulse in his face.

Alex searched the faces surrounding him, still disoriented and trying to piece together the events that led to his current state. His eyes landed on Clark, head uncovered and red-cheeked, his green eyes bloodshot from tears and the cold. His chest was heaving silently, and he mouthed the words “I’m sorry, please be all right” to him, and Alex’s world shifted itself. He heard Clark’s desperate words, muffled by the water lapping over his head and splashing into his ears, reading the fear in them, translating them to mean that Clark hadn’t accepted any of Alex’s attempts to rid himself of him.

Clark was a pest.

But, Clark was _his_ pest, he realized.

“C-c-Clark,” Alex choked out. His hand struggled free of the blankets and reached for him.

In that instant, Clark felt power resonating inside him, awakened by the horror of watching someone close to him almost leave him. Clark was no stranger to loss, having left everything behind him when he climbed onto a coffin ship and landed in Metropolis’ harbor, having watched family members sicken and die despite his mother’s attempts at country medicine. Every cell in his body felt charged with energy and his heart rate sped up, making the blood surge through his veins like a river swollen by a storm. His eyes continued to burn, and he gulped back tears. “Alex,” he whispered. “Please warm up.”

And Clark obliged him. Frissons of heat traveled through the frigid air for several seconds, channeling themselves to the boy huddled ineffectually under the blankets. The air around him grew suffused with warmth, coddling his body, and his shivering slowed slightly, jaw relaxing until his teeth stopped chattering, and a hint of color returned to his pale cheeks. Clark’s eyes widened for a moment when he realized what was happening, and he clenched his eyes shut against the flow of heat his eyes emitted, a burgeoning, frightening gift. Clark hurried toward the bench, remembering his boots, and began to tear apart his knotted laces, shucking the skates and trying to master his emotions.

“Clark?” Roy slowly approached him, and Clark saw the contrition in his face. “You… you helped him. You pulled him out.” Fear gripped him, the implications of his words sinking in. Roy saw what he did… with the ice…

“I… no. I didn’t do anyth-“

“That’s what those girls said they saw,” he argued, and Roy was rubbing his hands to warm them, even though he had mittens on. His lips were blue, too, from his time out on the pond.

“Please,” Clark insisted. “Don’t… don’t talk about it. Don’t… tell my da.” Roy shook his head solemnly, and somehow Clark trusted him.

“No one will believe me. Clark… you’re not a chicken.” He stared down at the ground. “I’m sorry we said those things.”

Clark simply nodded, then bent down to finish putting on his boots. Before he could find anything else to say, he heard Hurley’s familiar, barrel-house voice.

“What happened?” he snapped, and Clark watched his face contort in shock. “What happened to Mister Luthor’s boy?” He noticed Alex’s pitiful state and blue lips, seeing damp spots on the blankets as his wet clothing soaked through.

“Get him home and inside,” said the man tending Alex. “And call for Dr. Swan. This one went through the ice. They went out past the barrels.”

“I’m c-cold,” Alex told Hurley as he pushed forward and gripped Alex through the blankets. He laid his palm on his head, trying to offer comfort.

“We’ll get you home.” Then he realized, “Where’s Clark? Is he- CLARK! Oh, thank God!” He held out his arms, and Clark ran to him. He caught him up in a fierce embrace, relief mixing with anger. “Why did you go out so far?”

“He didn’t want me out there with him,” Clark told him in a small voice. “We didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“Of course you didn’t! Foolish little hooligans! Your mother will have my hide for giving you those skates, now!” But he hugged Clark again. “I’m going to get you home. We need to get there as quick as we can, Clark. Get in the carriage!” Clark retrieved his skates, then remembered Alex’s boots. He took those, too, and obeyed Hurley’s order, climbing into the far seat. Hurley took Alex, blankets and all and promised one of the onlookers that he would return them. Clark watched Alex with humble eyes as he bundled him inside.

“Clark? Come over and sit up against him. He could use some more heat. It might help.” Clark nodded, and he blinked back further tears.

“I will.” Alex was still shivering, but he didn’t argue with Hurley’s suggestion, nor did he rebuff Clark’s contact as he sidled up to him and wrapped an arm around him, rubbing him soothingly through the blankets. Alex’s breathing was stertorous and hiccupping, and Clark felt his tremors racking against him.

“I’m sorry,” Clark murmured as they rode through town, the journey not feeling fast enough, even though Hurley was driving the horses with a firmer hand.

“W-why?” Alex’s eyes were drowsy, but they lingered on Clark’s face, searching it.

“Maybe…” Clark swallowed around a lump in his throat. “Maybe if I hadn’t been following you… you wouldn’t have wanted to get away from me. Maybe you wouldn’t have gone as far out.” He waited a beat. “Sorry for the snowballs.”

“Clark, it’s… it’s all right,” Alex told him softly. “I’m sorry for the snowballs, too.” Clark didn't express any surprise at the apology; he only rubbed him more briskly to try to warm him up.

Alex didn’t remember much about the trip back inside the house, not Hurley stumbling up the front steps with him, not Clark carrying their skates inside, not Mrs. Smith’s panicked shriek or Martha Kent running to find dry blankets and to put on a kettle. 

He was too dazed to react with embarrassment when both women helped him out of his clothes, sending his soaked clothing away with Hurley so it could be hung to dry. He was quickly dressed in a soft flannel union suit and bundled into bed, and several blankets were heaped onto him and tucked tightly around him. He was still chattering. Martha made him hot tea and sugared it liberally, coaxing him to drink some, but he still struggled with it. Neither woman liked his pallor. Clark lingered outside the room, waiting to be told what to do, and so afraid of getting in the way while they saw to Alex. 

A harsh knock on the door brought Mrs. Smith running downstairs, stray hairs escaping from her tight bun. "Dr. Swan," she cried gratefully. "We've had a horrible scare. We almost lost Master Alexander today."

"You could lose him, still, to hypothermia," he said gravely, and he regretted his words when he saw her face contort and her hand fly up to cover her mouth. She backed up to let him inside and motioned for him to go upstairs. She didn't chide him for not stomping the snow from his boots on the mat. Clark saw him coming up the stairs and automatically abandoned his perch by the newel post, eyes darting to his black leather satchel. 

"Please make him better," Clark blurted out. Dr. Swan managed a vestige for a smile.

"That's why I'm here. Go. Bring up a hot brick for him, if you haven't yet. Do you know how?" Clark nodded, looking grateful for something to do. He rushed downstairs on his errand while Dr. Swam joined Alex at the bedside. He began to examine him, and Alex moaned in protest at having the blankets peeled back, but he suffered it without further complaint when Mrs. Smith tutted at him. Clark hurried back with the brick, and Alex stirred at the sound of his stomps coming up the stairs.

"I'm sorry, Clark," he rasped. Dr. Swan lifted his brows as he put away his stethoscope. Clark shook his head.

"It's all right," Clark insisted. He was carrying the brick with the large pair of tongs that Martha usually used for the task. Mrs. Smith took it from him hastily and placed it between the sheets. Alex sighed in relief at the feeling of heat radiating from it, warming the bed, and he stared gratefully up at Clark, who still looked rattled.

"Go ahead and climb in next to him," Dr. Swan ordered. Clark looked surprised when he realized he was giving him this order. "Body heat will help him. Then give him a hot drink. Tea, cider or broth. Keep them coming. Cover his head. Keep the heat from leaving his body that way." Clark was removing his coat, boots and socks, and he gingerly climbed in beneath the covers. "Don't be embarrassed, Alexander. Just rest and stay warm. Let him help you. Get right up against him." Reluctant as Alex was initially, his misgivings evaporated at the contact as Clark eased himself against him and wrapped one of his skinny arms around his middle, tucking his head against his shoulder.

Clark felt oh, so warm. His gift of absorbing energy and strength from exposure to sunlight -even the dimmest daylight - made his body run hot. Alex's body began to relax and his shivering slowed even further. Pillows were tucked under his head to prop him up just enough for Mrs. Smith to spoon some of the tea into his mouth. Even that exhausted him. Martha felt some of the tension in her chest ease as Alex began to improve. She wrapped a towel around the top of Alex's scalp to seal in his heat and Clark rubbed Alex's arm and shoulder, much like he had in the carriage.

Alex's arm crept around the smaller, warm body against him and gave him a slight squeeze; Clark sighed at the embrace and buried his face in the flannel of Alex's suit. Dr. Swan left after giving them some further instructions, with Hurley showing him out.

"I'd best continue with supper. Mister Luthor will be home shortly." Mrs. Smith smoothed her sweaty palms over her apron, and her face showed fatigue and relief. "Perhaps freshen the room a bit, Martha."

"Yes, ma'am," she agreed. She tidied up the room and brought back another cup of tea when the first one cooled. Alex and Clark gradually dozed off. Martha quietly closed the door and took a few minutes to compose herself and find Jonathan.

He was waiting for her downstairs, and he rose automatically from the kitchen chair and clasped her arms in his beefy grip. "Hurley told me what happened! Is Alexander all right?"

"He should be, now; Connor ... Clark is with him." Mrs. Smith was pulling a loaf of bread from the oven and caught the slip.

"Connor?"

"That was his given name. We were told to change it," Martha said softly. "He got used to it, after a while." Mrs. Smith nodded thoughtfully.

"Jonathan... I just want to say, you've raised a fine boy. A fine, sweet boy." Then she blustered as she set down the loaf, giving Martha her customary, mulish look. "You'd best clean those chops. Fetch me the large skillet." Martha suppressed the urge to chuckle. She squeezed Jonathan's hand briefly. 

"They're in Alex's room. Try not to disturb him much." He left them in the kitchen and crept upstairs, shucking his thick gloves and unwinding his muffler as he went. Jonathan eased the door open a crack and peered inside.

Alex was bundled to the teeth, his fair face peeking out from beneath the covers. Clark's dark curls were mashed against his cheek, his small hand curled around the crest of Alex's shoulder. Jonathan expelled a harsh breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, hand clutching the knob.

It could have been his own son in that water. Clark was blessed, and lucky, surely, but the concept still unnerved him, plunging him into dark thoughts. Jonathan fretted for a moment. Lionel might not appreciate the sight of his Irish staff's son occupying _his_ son's bed. Yet, it had been necessary. Jonathan backed out of the room and closed the door, musing

When supper was ready, Jonathan roused Clark from bed, untangling him from the covers and Alex's arms. Alex reflexively tried to cling to the source of warmth, arm tightening around Clark for a moment. His eyes were groggy and unfocused, but Jonathan spoke to him insistently.

"Mrs. Smith is bringing up your supper. Clark needs to clean himself up." He tucked Alex's blankets back in around him while Clark rubbed his eyes and yawned. Alex settled back under the covers, bereft of Clark's comforting bulk against him but tired enough to doze back off.

* 

Lionel was understandably rattled when he heard about the incident. Hurley blustered his way through giving him his account, contrite and ashamed. He let Mrs. Smith guide him upstairs to look in on him. "Alexander?" Lionel murmured. "Look at me, son." His slate blue eyes cracked open and he gave him a weak smile.

"You're home."

"I wasn't expecting my driver to tell me my son fell through the ice when I got here," Lionel growled, but he adjusted Alex's blankets, pulling them back up to his chin. "It's time for supper." Alex nodded, and out of old habit, he didn't offer any further words, or expect any affection.

The kiss on his brow surprised him. Lionel left the room before his son should see how badly his hands were shaking.


	4. Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha gets to know the late Mrs. Luthor through her household routine. The dynamic changes between Alex and Clark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is getting hard to nail down. I knew what I wanted to do with this a couple of years ago when I started it, but plotwise... eh. I'm lost. I know more or less what I want to do with Lex. That's about it.
> 
> Eh.
> 
> Chime in if you like with plot direction suggestions. It will at least give me something to chew on. In the meantime, happy creating.

Dust

"You're going to stain that." Alex frowned at Clark's inky fingers where he tried to rub out a mistake on his essay. His white shirt cuff was dangerously close to the damp page. "Wash your hands." Clark shrugged, then obeyed, going to the water pump outside to douse his fingers. He'd been avoiding going outside since they arrived home from school; the bright sunshine made it too tempting to find distractions, and his mother threatened that he would miss out on Mrs. Smith's cobbler after supper if he didn't finish his work.

Clark came back inside, fingers still stained but no longer a risk to his shirt, which was one of Alex's castoffs. Clark sighed as he sat back down to resume his writing assignment.

Alex was such a pill.

He still admired him, certainly. The day he fell through the ice changed the way he regarded Clark. On the surface, some habits remained the same. He was still bossy and critical, and he still made a point of reminding him how "lucky" he was to have a place in his father's house.

But the telling gestures, such as ruffling his hair in passing or giving him goodnatured shoves whenever Clark would approach him, made it clear that he no longer resented him so much, if at all. Two days of bed rest bundled to the teeth gave him time to think, as did the very attentive and sympathetic care he received from Mrs. Kent. She brought him his favorite soup and hot cider flavored with cinnamon sticks. She offered him a steady stream of chatter and anecdotes about Ireland, their adjustment to their new city, and about Clark. Some of the stories were embarrassing, certainly, and Alex enjoyed the cringing expression he caught on the younger boy's face, a deep flush rising up in his cheeks.

Alex never formally thanked Clark, not in words, for saving his life. But he opened the door - just a crack, perhaps - to being his friend. Alex and Clark’s return to school after his incident on the ice was heralded initially by whispers and wide-eyed looks. Word had spread that Clark had pulled him from the water, and the tale grew more and more exaggerated the more often it was told. Clark tried to ignore the gossip and furtive looks during the lunch hour outside and during those first few minutes before his arrival – their arrival, really, now that Lionel allowed him to travel in the carriage with Alex. It still felt awkward. Clark had a hard enough time finding acceptance before, because he was an immigrant and poor, dressed in cast offs. But now, his peers at school were wary of him, and that felt worse.

Yet he carried on as though nothing had changed. He made a beeline to Pete every day as soon as he arrived. Pete had been envious when Clark told him about the new skates, even though he told him very frankly, “Wouldn't have caught me hanging out with those boys, Clark.” When Pete demanded an explanation for the stories he’d heard secondhand, Clark merely shrugged and said “I just helped pull him out. It was nothing.” He underplayed it not only for his own sake – and the safety of his secret- but also for Alex’s benefit, not wanting to embarrass him by relating why he needed saving, or that he almost died.

No. The most notable change was what Alex _didn't say._

When the older boys slighted Clark or tried to treat him like a peon, Alex stopped chiming in. Whitney and Jason would snigger and nod after Clark as he walked by, elbowing Alex, muttering things not fit for polite company. Alex would merely shake his head and bury his nose in his book. It was Alex who made a place in the lineup for Clark, and even for Pete, when they would play baseball. It was Alex who would check Clark’s lunch pail for worms or toads, even though Clark could see through the cloth towel Martha covered it with, anyway, and he could hear them sneaking up behind him to make mischief.

Alex still scarcely spoke to Clark during school hours, but it was often to chide him in hushed whispers to sit up straight or to fix his rumpled clothing for him, rebuttoning his cuff or smoothing a cowlick in his hair, rolling his eyes at Clark’s seeming inability to keep himself neat. “Hopeless,” he would murmur with a put-upon sigh. Before Clark could argue or shove his hand away, Alex would saunter off, losing interest in the encounter.

_*_

Three winters passed since the day at the pond with no further incidents on the ice. Alex was almost ready for his finishing exams, and Clark secretly dreaded that time. Lionel planned to send Alex away to college in the fall, leaving Clark alone in the large, grand house with the adults who had increasingly less time for him. Clark tolerated Alex’s chiding and fuss for the simple reason that it meant time spent near him, hearing the deep, confident voice that lost its adolescent crack two years prior. Alex was tall and lean and had his father’s sardonic smile. His scalp remained bare, but the older he became, the less unusual it seemed. It also didn't hurt his looks; Alexander Luthor at sixteen was strikingly handsome, all baby fat gone from his face, with his mother’s soft blue eyes. 

Alex looked up from his book as Clark returned to the kitchen. “You need to be more careful. Do you turn in messy papers, too?”

“No,” Clark argued. “I was going to write it over, anyway.” Alex sighed and shook his head.

“You’re a mess, Clark,”

“So?” Clark took a gulp of milk and got himself another sheet of paper from the drawer in the side table. He discarded his first draft and began again, using his most careful penmanship. Alex made a sound of satisfaction and went back to his own studying.

“Hurley said he already finished cleaning the stalls. He said you can help Jonathan in the yard, instead.” Clark beamed without looking up from his paper. “You like doing that kind of work?”

“It doesn't bother me. Puts nickels in my pocket.” Lionel began paying Clark every week to help the staff with their work. Jonathan and Martha were just grateful for the roof over their heads. They still looked forward to the day when they could send Clark to college, even it seemed like a pipe dream. Martha was thrifty and saved every available cent that she could in a small wooden box tucked in the bottom of the armoire. There was eking a living, and there was building a life, she reasoned; Clark, if given the proper chance, would do the latter. She would make sure of it.

Clark and Alex worked on their respective lessons, and Clark occasionally felt Alex glance up at him. He caught him eventually, and chanced asking him, “What?”

“Huh?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I wasn't,” Alex lied. Then he reconsidered. “Best put on something that isn't as nice when you go out in the yard.” Clark sighed. More nagging. Why wasn't he surprised?

Mrs. Smith entered the kitchen and smiled at the two of them fondly, ruffling Clark's hair as she went to the cupboards. "That's what I like to see, both of my boys working hard!" Clark tried to duck out from under her hand, but he smiled back sheepishly. She took down two glasses and filled them with milk. Clark drank his thirstily; Alex sipped his as he took notes.

"When's supper?" he asked.

"In about an hour. I've a roast in the oven, Master Alex." He winced.

"How long do I get to be Master Alex instead of Mister Luthor?"

"For as long as your father is Mister Luthor," she told him cheekily, swatting him with a towel. "Neither of you would know who I was speaking to if I called you by the same name!"

"So I'll be an old man by the time you acknowledge me as an adult?"

"No. Certainly not, Master Alex." He huffed, shaking his head. "I'll certainly acknowledge you as an adult when you become one." Clark smirked over the rim of his milk glass. Alex gave him a sour look that made him snigger.

"I'm just Clark," he pointed out.

"Of course you are, dear." She smiled. "Just like Hurley's just Hurley." She didn't point out that he would likely never have a title of any sort as long as he lived in someone else's home, considered a servant like his parents. Mrs. Smith couldn't say much for what Clark's lot in life would be, given where he came from. But he was a sweetheart, bright, handsome, and certainly not as spoiled as Alexander. Perhaps those traits would take him far, she mused, particularly when he worked as hard as he did. Even his accent was slowly starting to sound more American, owning less of its Irish lilt.

She almost missed it.

Alex clapped his book shut and gathered up his things. "All finished?" Mrs. Smith asked.

"Yes, ma'am.” He left his milk glass behind, barely touched. Clark glanced at her for permission as he reached for it, smiling when she nodded; growing boys needed milk, and Clark Kent was growing like a weed, at only twelve easily as tall as her. He finished it and wiped his lip on his sleeve, despite Alex's previous warning not to stain his shirt. Mrs. Smith took the empty glasses and washed up the dishes before she began to make the vegetables. Clark finished his assignment and tucked the page into his book.

"Can I help?" he asked eagerly.

"Wash your hands."

"I just did!" He held out his hands, but she tutted over the ink stains.

"Wash them one more time. And put your school things away!" Clark sighed before he darted out of the room, and she heard his feet pounding up the steps. "DON'T RUN!" she shouted up at him, but she chuckled.

He was back down in a flash, and Martha heard a stack of papers on the desk she was wiping down with polish flutter and spill off onto the floor with the rush of air he kicked up. "SLOW DOWN!" she cried, scandalized that the rest of the staff or Alexander would notice. To her relief, he slowed his steps as he went downstairs. Mrs. Smith would think the house was about to fall down around their ears...

After giving his hands a brisker wash - he used extra friction, rubbing his hands together so rapidly that it buffed off the dead skin cells and burned off the ink - he returned to the kitchen to help peel the potatoes. He whistled under his breath as he worked. Mrs. Smith slyly slipped him a cookie. "Just one. Don't spoil your supper."

Jonathan put him to work on pulling weeds and planting freshly sprouted petunias, deadheading the roses and harvesting the herbs from Mrs. Smith's spice garden. It was tempting to allow him to do more of the heavy lifting, but Jonathan didn't want to draw undue attention to just how strong his son - a mere child - really was.

Occasionally, he forgot himself. Clark was in Lionel's study one day, sketching by the window. "Have you seen my reading glasses, young man?" Lionel patted his jacket pockets, looking annoyed as he shuffled through the drawer of his desk. He'd caught Clark trying them on one day, which earned him a scolding.

Clark seemed to glance around the room, then his face brightened. "Over there," he announced, pointing to the left.

"There?" Lionel went in the direction, still rummaging. "I don't see where you-"

"In the hall. Beside the blue vase."

"What?"

"By the vase," he repeated, shrugging. Clark blithely went back to his sketch, and Lionel wandered out into the hallway...

...where he found his reading glasses perched beside the blue Ming vase. He polished them on his jacket sleeve and put them on. "Er, Clark... did you see me leave them there earlier?"

"No, sir." He saw that Lionel was about to sit down at his desk, which was his signal to leave the study. He rushed off before Lionel could question him any further.

"What the devil...?" Surely he hadn't...? He couldn't?

Did he?

Lionel went to the window, retracing Clark's steps. The vase wasn't visible from the window, not at its angle from the doorway, and not in the direction he'd pointed. Before he could ponder it any further, Mrs. Smith called him to supper. He asked her if she was the one who moved his glasses, and she reminded him that he'd taken them off while he was talking to the grocer when he made his delivery, but how was she to keep track?

*

Martha hummed to herself while she polished the tarnished silver upstairs, rubbing down platters, candlesticks, mirrors and boxes until they gleamed. The warmer weather brought more dirt and dust inside, as well as more sunlight streaming in through the windows to show it. Once Martha cleaned, aired and put away the winter linens and drapes and brought out the ones for spring, she began to tackle the monumental project of cleaning the house from top to bottom. Her shoulders and neck often ached by bedtime, but even huffy Mrs. Smith praised her work.

The Kents benefitted from the cavalier generosity that Lionel showed them by letting Martha have her pick of the old cast offs in the attic. She exclaimed over the trunks of women’s clothing and Alexander’s hand-me-downs, grateful that she wouldn't have to spare the money to buy fabric just yet, except to make Jonathan a few new shirts. Their bedroom showed Martha’s handiwork and clever needle in every detail. Handmade, colorful rag rugs helped quell the drafty floors. Mrs. Smith parted with a few of Alex’s old baby buntings that eventually went into the warm quilt spread over the bed. Softly gathered curtains dressed the windows, matching the throw pillows on the chair in the corner.

Clark outgrew his cot, and Lionel was persuaded to offer Clark one of the smaller rooms upstairs for his own, finally, which delighted him. It was small and cramped, but Clark loved it because he could call it his own. Many of the castoff toys that he’d coveted before returned to the attic’s trunks as he outgrew those, too. He kept the spinning top for posterity, setting it gliding over his desk whenever he was pondering something. Clark enjoyed his newfound privacy – as did his parents – so he could read his novels til all hours of the night. He would wait until his enhanced hearing caught the sounds of their low snores from two doors down before relighting his lantern, and he would get lost in his stories.

Martha began to pack away Clark’s too-small things, now, and the sight of them made her wistful. She dusted all of the furniture and cleaned the banisters and wainscoting with oil soap. She pushed her broom up into high corners to pull down the cobwebs, cringing at the little beasties whenever she caught one and smashed it with her shoe.

She went into Lionel’s room, knocking first. “Mister Luthor?” A second attempt without response told her it was fine to enter. The suite was enormous and airy and smelled slightly of his cologne. Martha busied herself tidying up, collecting his discarded clothing into her large basket, then tsked at the condition one of his socks, pulling at a fraying hole in the heel. “That will need mending,” she murmured.

“Nonsense, Martha. You have my permission to throw that pair away.” She startled at the sound of Lionel’s deep voice in the doorway and whirled on him, hand flying up to her chest. He smiled, just a slight quirk of his lips. “I must apologize, dear. I didn't know you were contemplating my socks so intently.” Her green eyes twinkled as she returned his smile.

"I could fix this one, but if you’re tired of them, sir, then I can certainly get rid of them.”

“I can buy more socks.” He could buy a sock factory. “I can tell you’ve been busy.” Martha instinctively smoothed her apron but kept herself from tucking the errant lock of hair behind her ear where it belonged. “Your hard work shows.”

“I just hope I’m doing what’s expected of me, and that I’m doing it properly, sir.” She tipped her head in a polite nod, her warm eyes never leaving her face.

“You’ve exceeded my expectations, my dear.”

“I won't be long in here, unless you would like me to come back later?” She prepared to go, folding up her cleaning rags, but Lionel held up his hand.

“Nonsense. Take your time.” As he was about to leave, Martha’s eyes landed on something that she always admired whenever she came in to clean. “Sir? I was wondering about this.”

“Pardon?”

“This picture. She’s lovely.” Lionel froze, and his eyes glazed slightly as he watched her pick up the daguerrotype of his late wife.

“Lillian,” he murmured. “That was taken shortly after we were married.”

“Alexander takes after her a bit, doesn't he?” Yet Alex had his father’s shrewd look around the eyes and mouth, the same strong jaw and long, patrician nose. They were certainly cut from the same cloth.

“He does, I suppose.”

“How long has she been…?”

"She passed away in childbirth along with my younger son, Julian.” She clapped her hand over her mouth.

“I asked too much, Mister Luthor.”

“Not at all.”

"I’m sorry.”

"Lillian’s in a better place. I only wish she were here to see the man Alexander has become.” Despite his loving words, there was a hardness in his eyes.

“She’d be proud, sir. So proud,” she emphasized fondly. “I’ll just finish up.”

"That will be fine.”

He turned to leave, but thought better of it. There was a vestige of a smile on his face when he approached her, and she gasped when his slim fingers reached out and tucked the messy tendril of red hair behind her ear where it belonged. He cleared his throat, letting it dawn on both of them that he'd erred as he backed away. When she was alone again, she had a hard time steadying her hands as she cleaned the suite. They just wouldn't stop shaking.


End file.
